Wear and Tear
by A Terrible Person
Summary: So how did everyone's favorite asylum mates end up in Thorny Towers? From Loboto to Fred, I'll try and answer your question. Rated T for blood and cursing. Patient of now: Fred, which means my story is done.
1. The Fallen Star

It had been raining all day, but she was out there.

Fred had no idea who she was, but dang, she was familiar. Like he'd seen her in a magazine once or twice. She had doing this all day, she'd walk up to the asylum, and when she got within ten feet or so to the doors, panic seemed to grip her and see ran back to wherever she was hiding.

Fred couldn't help but wonder if she was really there. He'd been orderly for, what, a year, and maybe the ramblings of madmen where getting to him. He even went out there once, calling "ma'am", "miss", and "HEY LADY!" but to no response, only rain. He heard people, visitors, fellow workers, and the slightly-saner-than-the-rest-patients whisper about him when he came back in. He just sighed, threw on his sweater to keep warm, and continued his rounds, always taking the long way so he could through the main lobby and glance at the doors, just to see if she was out there, nervously making her way towards the doors.

And soon it was time for him to head back to his apartment, rest, try and figure out how to help the more unresponsive patients (Board games, maybe?) and watch some mind clearing television. He stuffed his briefcase full of papers, grabbed his umbrella, and started outside.

"Eh-excuse me, sir, do you, uh, work here?"

He spun around, and there she was. Her hair was dark red, tangled and wet with rain and stress. Whatever makeup she had on was running, mascara causing what looked like black tears streaking down her face. The dark green overcoat made her look twice her rather petite size (Then again, Fred towered over pretty much everyone ever), and he was probably staring at her for many moments before what she asked really sank in.

"Oh! Yeah, uh, I do, and I just got off work, so–"

The last few words didn't sink in with her, because she then started crying, dark tears running down her face, and she managed to sniffle out two sentences before going into full-on sob mode.

"Help me, I beg of you. I think I'm going insane."

* * *

Through the new flurry of paperwork, questions, and asylum tours, he learned that the latest patient's name was Gloria Von Gouten. Wait. _THE _Gloria Von Gouten, actress supreme and lovely singer? What happened to her? Fred had seen her live once, and she was absolutely spectacular, but he heard her latest performances often consisted of her crying and various other example of mental breakdowns. He thought it was just rumors, but oh, it was real, and now he was leading Miss Von Gouten to her room.

The overcoat was back away somewhere else now, the makeup was wiped away, and her hair was a bit drier. It was hard to believe she was a fallen super-star, looking so un-spectacular in her new white asylum gown. Most people would look disgusted at the standard asylum room, the grey concrete walls, the simple metal bed with bleached-white covers, and the barred windows, but no, she grinned and beared it. "Darling, compared to some of my old dressing rooms, this is a five star suite." she said.

He allowed himself to smile and relax a bit. But still, wow, the Gloria Von Gouten, here, of all places.

"Right then. Well, Miss Von Gouten–" he began, looking back down at his clipboard.

"Call me Gloria, darling."

Wow. First name bases already, and she had only been here for an hour.

"Okay, right, well, Gloria. You'll be staying here tonight, and tomorrow we'll give you some therapy, see what kind of medications and types of therapy you need and such, so you should probably get some rest, it's late."

She was already wrapping herself up in her new bed's blankets before he finished his explanation. He smiled, and started to walk out, he just needed to switch off the light, say goodbye, and close the steel door...

"Wait, stop! Can you leave on the light, please? I.. I don't do well in the dark." she said, sitting up in her bed.

He turned to face Gloria. "I really can't, you know. I tried once, but apparently it uses too much electricity and disturbs other patients. I would if I could though." he said. Gloria still looked pretty scared.

"Well, there's always the lights outside, streetlights and such. They're brighter than you think, trust me." he said. Reassuring a mental patient was nigh impossible, but dangit he tried.

She pulled the covers closer around her. "Streetlights and such. Right. I.. I'll be fine. G-goodnight Mr. Bonaparte."

"'Night."

The light switched off, the door was shut and locked, and Fred was finally ready to go home.

* * *

It was five A.M., barely 6 hours after meeting Gloria, and Fred was awoken from his couch with a call from the asylum. Trouble with one of the patients, come quick, blah blah. Just like every other morning.

But no, it was worse than every other morning. Between the police and ambulance, he learned that one of the patients got lose and injured three staff member. Worse than that, the patient was Gloria. Eventually, he found her, shivering and bound in a straight jacket somewhere in solitary confinement. He shoved aside a few guards and ran to her, crouching down to talk to face her.

"Gloria? Can you hear me? What happened? Did they hurt you? Are you alright?" among other worried questions flowed from his mouth.

Her eyes focused on him, cutting him off in mid-question. "I told you, I don't do well in the dark!" she snapped.

The Gloria Von Gouten, of all people. Wow.

* * *

**Wow, my first multi chapter work. I'm proud of myself. Anyhow, who should I do next: Edgar or Loboto? I'll try to make Edgar's sort of sympathetic with a twinge of sarcasm, while Loboto's story will just be as disturbing as I go. Teeth being pulled with no laughing gas, eek!**


	2. The Obsessed Artist

This morning, Fred was handed a file, and told that he should talk to the latest patient, Edgar Teglee.

It had been a week since the Gloria incident. She had calmed down, was put back into her old room, straightjacket removed, and currently had a nightlight. She still was a tad bitter at Fred though. Fred did not like patients being mad at him. Especially the ones with anger problems, like Gloria. It meant the chance of being shanked numerous times in the back was larger than usual. So he did not want to anger this patient.

Edgar was a man a good twenty years older than Fred, with tattoos covering his strong-looking body, some rather well-kept hair and a mustache, both with some wisps of gray in them. According to the notes, he was arrested for assault, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder.

The chance of getting killed today was already at 70 percent, and he had only been here ten minutes.

Still, he had to do his job. So, hands trembling, Fred opened the door, praying that the guy hadn't found a way to sharpen his kitchen utensils...

"Ah, the orderly! I thought you would, eh, never show up." said a kindly man sitting on his bed in the dingy asylum room. This was not Edgar Teglee. It couldn't be. Too bright and cheery sounding, not that of a man who tried to kill someone. But the tattoos and mustache matched, as did the description of a Spanish accent. But this was the guy who pistol whipped someone?

"Uh, do you need anything, sir?"

Edgar's voice whacked him out of his thoughts. "Oh, it's nothing. I just need to understand why you are here and such..." He really needed to stop staring when he was thinking.

"Ah, yes that." Edgar's brow furrowed. "Well, they insulted my art."

_And so it begins_, Fred thought.

"So, you're an artist?" Fred said. Dumb question, but it'd get him talking.

"Yes, a very determined one at that. But lately, I've been having, uh... Oh, what to call it.. Artist's block, I suppose." Edgar replied.

"Artist's block. What do you mean by that?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Orderly, I have only been able to paint one thing: Bull fights."

"Bullfights." Fred said, trying to mask his disbelief.

"Yes, exactly." Edgar said. "And I despise it."

Fred took a deep breath. _Edgar is getting irritated, tred gently, _he told himself. "Well, do you have any idea how it might have started, this obsession..." He brought up the clipboard and jotted down a few quick notes about his art and the bullfights.

"Indeed, I do." Edgar sighed. "It was a long time ago, back in my old home.I was in love with the most beautiful seorita in the world, my Lampita Pasionado... I was so lucky to have her fall in love with a lowly painter like me..."

Fred quickly jotted down "Trouble with love."

"And then, there was this.. Matador, Dingo Inflagrante. He commissioned me to draw his portrait, and he met Lampita. And he charmed her with his looks, and my poor love gave in, and he took my senorita away from me." he said sadly.

Fred made a quick note, "Bitter about love."

"Well, Mr. Teglee, I will be sure to sure discuss this with the doctors and put you in the correct form of therepy." Fred said, scratching down a few more notes.

"Thank you, mister orderly. I will try and stay calm until then." Edgar said, showing a bit of a smile. Fred backed out of the room and locked the door, thought " What a nice guy," then fell back on the metal door, clutched the clipboard tightly to his chest, and began breathing heavily.

Holy hell. Hoooooollllllly hell. He was still alive. No broken bones, scrapes, or bruises. He survived an encounter with a guy who could probably benchpress 250 pounds! Oh wow, how the hell did he do that...

"Bonaparte? Are you alright?" came a voice. Fred straightened up and tried to regulate his breathing. It was Doctor Thorne, one of the head doctors, in her thick glasses and white labcoat glory.

"Uh. Yes. Yes! I'm perfectly fine, doctor." Fred stuttered.

"Alright then. What do you think we should do with Mister Teglee in there?" she said, tilting her head to the side.

"Uhm.. Well, we should probably put him in art therapy, it'd be the best for him." he said, regaining his composure.

"Hrm. Art therapy. I'll take your word for it, Bonaparte." she said. She turned sharply, and walked down the corridor.

Goddamn. He just survived a strongman-of-a-patient and the doctor. He couldn't handle this much excitement in one day!

* * *

Besides Edgar, it was a relatively normal day at the asylum and went by quickly. Fred began to pack the papers back into his briefcase before walking home, still thinking about what board game he should tempt the unresponsive patients with.

"Mr. Bonaparte, I am glad I caught you." Fred froze Doctor Thorne's voice was like a knife to the heart. "I put Edgar in art therapy today, like you said. He smashed a canvas board over an employee's head."

Craaaap.

"Also, he drew this. I want an explanation." she said, shoving a piece of paper into his hand.

It was a picture of Fred in pencil, complete with Edgar's signature at the bottom. A closeup of his head, every detail correct. He was impressed.

"Check. The. Back." Doctor Thorne's angry voice hurt even more than her normal, cold one. He flipped the page.

A bullfight. Fred did his best to suppress a chuckle.

"Well?" The Doctor was getting more annoyed by the second. Fred smiled and packed the picture into his briefcase.

"He's coping." he said quite matter-of-factly.

* * *

**Chapter two, oh yeah. I think I did quite well. Up next will probably be Boyd, since I've already got some nice ideas for him. Plus, he's so damn fun to write.  
**


	3. The Paranoid Agent

It had started snowing in late November, two months after he met Edgar.

Gloria had found refuge in the asylum's greenhouse, where strange and colorful plants grew, a huge change from the dull-colored asylum. If she was still made at Fred, she did not show it, as she referred to him as "Darling" and "Sweetheart" again.

Edgar was also coping with his art. The bullfights merely became part of the painting rather than the center of it, and he hadn't caused any injuries for three weeks.

And now, after his weekend, he was informed of yet another patient with a crime streak.

Boyd Cooper was a man seven years senior of Fred. He was of average height, average build, average black hair, and was basically your friendly neighborhood everyday man.

Except he had a mental breakdown resulting in him throwing molotov cocktails in milk bottles at the place he used to work at, resulting in killing four people inside. Defiantly not average.

A few doctors that did not have weekends off informed him that Mister Cooper had pure paranoid schizophrenia, plain and simple, and that he was only recently let out of his straight jacket, so be careful. Also, he's a conspiracy theorist and won't stop writing on the walls, so if you could get the chalk away from him without getting killed, that'd be great.

Fred never talked to anyone who had killed. Edgar was the closest he knew to a real murderer. What could've caused it? Did he feel any remorse? Why?

Fred took a deep breath. He probably wasn't much different from the other patients. Just slightly more disturbed.

That did not stop his hands from shaking, as the patients were already extremely disturbed in the first place.

So, on a whim, Fred jerked the door open and held his breath, only to find himself facing Mister Cooper's back, which was currently scribbling on the older concrete walls. He glanced back at Fred for a second, then continued his writings.

The doctors were right about the wall writing. Words, people, arrows, and maps were scribble over every wall. Apparently the cleaners didn't have the gall to try and wash it off when he was gone. Boyd himself stood out in the stark room like a sore thumb. His black hair was untidy, his face had stubble, his eyes had dark circles around them, and one seemed to twitch every now and again. The standard asylum pajamas he wore, blue and red pinstripes, were covered in various stains, some namable, most not. His hands were probably the worst, covered in badly-wrapped bandages and burns. Fred really needed to call the nurses out on things like this.

"Uh, Mister Cooper?" Fred said nervously.

"Hurm." the conspiracy theorist murmured in reply.

"I.. I'm, uh, Fred. Fred Bonaparte. I'm the orderly here.." Fred managed to choke out.

Another murmur was all Fred got. He stifled a sigh and walked closer to the man.

"So, Mister Cooper..." Fred began.

"Boyd."

"Huh?" Fred said.

Mister Cooper turned face him again. "Boyd. My name is Boyd. Stop calling me Mister Cooper. Too formal." he turned back to his drawings. "And suspicious." he added.

Fred stared at him for a second, then tried to pick up where he left off.

"Well then, Boyd, where'd you get the chalk?"

"Edgar." It was around this moment Fred realized that Boyd preferred short answers.

"And why'd he give you it?"

"He said writing with blood was a bad idea."

Oookaaay._ Possible problem with cutting, must investigate further_, he scribbled down on his clipboard. Fred began to actually look at the walls. Names of people, past presidents, dictators, inventors, cult leaders, and names in foreign languages, places, from world wonders to rural towns, time and space, according to Boyd, they were all somehow connected.

And a few of the scribbles were none other than asylum residents and workers. A drawing of Edgar painting, Gloria with a spotlight showing on her, Doctor Thorne's face in a book... In a child's storybook way, they were actually pretty good, or as good as one gets with simple white chalk.

"Boyd, if you don't mind me asking, what this all add up to?" Fred asked, bracing for the worst. Boyd stopped writing for a second and sighed.

"It's what I'm trying to figure out. It's what perfectly planned all the catastrophes in the world, it's what's developed the most murderous minds, it's what makes Gloria afraid and it's why Edgar refuses to admit it was Lampita fault for leaving him. Only one problem." Boyd paused and continued to write. "I have no idea what it is."

Fred almost wanted to say _Well Boyd, if there is a god, he's a very cruel bastard, _but he held himself back. No need to irritate the irrated.

"How many died?" Boyd said rather suddenly.

_Oh god, _Fred thought, _He's asking about the fire and he's either going to say he meant to get more or he's going to break down sobbing. Brace yourself Fred. Dammit, of all the days to forget your tazer..._

Fred took a deep breath. "Four. And twenty were injured." Fred winced, closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.

Silence, except for the scraping and tapping of chalk against a concrete wall.

"I'm sorry."

Fred opened an eye. "What do you mean?"

"I was drunk. I didn't mean to kill them. I'm sorry." Boyd said, his voice giving off only the tiniest crack.

A regretful murderer. Now's there's something you don't see every day.

"Well.. I-I'll be sure to let the other doctors know about this, Boyd. I've got to go now, finish my rounds and all. Uh. Goodbye." Fred had slunk out the door before he heard even a bye from Boyd.

_Deep breath now, Freddy. You just survived your first encounter with a murderer. And he's actually a pretty alright guy, _his mind told him. _Just a poor slightly alcoholic conspiracy theorist that was just in the wrong place at the wrong time._ It was around this point Fred realized he was clutching the clipboard so hard that it was making imprints on his fingers.

_You're alive. Just calm down. And breath. _So Fred did what his mind demanded, and began walking down the long hallway to continue his rounds.

_Mental note to self: Ask Edgar to offer Boyd those neat little boxes of multicolored chalk. His room is dreary._

* * *

**FUN FACT: My writer's block was especially horrible with Boyd. So, armed with a new episode of SuperJail!, some good trance-electro beats, and the ability to tell me that, yes, the name of that one song your friend used to sing all the time is "Bleed Like Me", the internet beat me into submission, forcing me to write the rest of this goddamn chapter, which was, contrary to my belief, not like pulling teeth. On that topic, next up is Loboto, the deranged dentist himself.** **Why yes, that is the title for the next chapter.**

**Also, my author's notes are too long.**

**P.S. HEY BABY CAN YOU BLEED LIKE ME. **

**P.S.S. I am not as drunk as you think I am.**


	4. The Deranged Dentist

Sadistic prisoners were not Fred's strong suit.

He never got anything beyond a bruise from his patients, but a patient asking if he bled the same way they did was just plain damn unnerving.

So when he told to talk to an extremely, extremely dangerous criminal, the first thing he wanted to do was run. Then he would hide for a very, very long time.

But he had to. Doctor Thorne would find him, and kill him with the nearest blunt object if he didn't.

According to what she told him on their walk to his room, Caligosto Loboto was a serial killer.

Oh god. He was dealing with a serial killer. And not the breakfast kind, either.

"Fred. Fred! Quit spacing out." Doctor Thorne's voice drug him kicking and screaming back to reality. "Repeat what I just said."

"Uh... Repeat what I just said?" Fred replied, nervously trying to lighten the mode. The doctor merely glared.

"Where did you lose me?" the doctor said.

"Uh, around the serial killer part."

She sighed. "He was a dentist before he figured out he liked blood and screaming. A lot. Pulled teeth and gross things like that. He disguised himself as a back-street dentist, if that makes sense. Help a couple people to get word of mouth, kidnap and torture a few, then repeat." she turned a page in Loboto's file.

"And the body count?" Fred said, trying to ignore the ache in his mouth.

"Ten. But that's all they've found..." She said boredly.

"You've... Seen this type of thing before, haven't you?" he said, slightly disturbed.

"Eh." she shrugged."You get used to it. Now, go get 'em, tiger."

He was at the door to Loboto's room. Fred nervously glanced back to the Doctor.

"He's wearing a straight jacket." she said.

"That doesn't make any difference!" Fred whined.

"Get in there. Now. We'll pull you out if he tries anything fishy. Promise."

Fred sighed and opened the door. He took one final glance at the glaring doctor, then thrust himself into the room.

"Ah, hello my dear boy! Another one of the therapists, are you?" Loboto's scratchy voice came from the corner of the room.

Loboto definetly didn't look too old, as his hair was still pitch black and oddly well-kept. But that was basically the only thing remotely normal about him. His skin was a icy blue color, his mouth seemed too large, and his thin frame was not helped at all by the tight straight jacket. Then there were the eyes.

It was as if someone put the eyepieces of metal goggles on his face. One was a bright red, the other was a dark green, and he could've sworn they seemed to zoom in on him. "Please, please sit down!" Loboto said, motioning towards a single hard-looking chair in the room. Fred swallowed hard, scooted the chair towards Loboto, then sat down.

"Ah.. Alright, Mr. Loboto..." Fred began, holding his pencil over his clipboard.

"It's doctor." Loboto cheerfully replied. Fred raised an eyebrow. "They might of revoked my license, but I am still a doctor Mister.." his eyes seemed to focus on Fred's nametag. "Bonaparte, yes."

Fred swallowed hard. "Right. Anyway, _Doctor _Loboto, what was your life like before the, uhm, killings?" he said, wincing slightly. The doctor merely gave him a toothy grin.

"Well well well.. My parents were doctors. Like I. And, you see, they often brought their work home. Well, really, work was stationed at home. They disected things a lot. Not just worms and frogs, no no! That sort of thing was much below them.." The way Loboto breezed through this was disturbing Fred.

"Anyhow, they took a ton of animals, sometimes human bodies (Dead, of course) from the scientific institute of what-the-hell, mostly of them still alive. So, they'd kill it, open it up, and saw how it ticked. Us-u-al-ly, they'd be genetically altered, so you'd get different colors of blood and such, and eventually, you get used to the howled of pain and death rattles." Fred's hands shook as he jotted down notes.

"And, sometimes, they figured that dead human bodies weren't enough. So, sometimes they'd drag me down to their basement lab. And, sometimes, the experiments were sick and twisted. 'Does this hurt, Cal?' 'What does this feel like, honey?' 'On a scale of one to ten, how much does this burn?' And eventually I figured out they liked the look on my face when I screamed. They wanted a punching bag that could squirm and cry and pray that it could stop..." Loboto's tone made it seem like he was vaguely fond of these memories.

"But I got through it, all the torture and screaming and blood. They even improved me a bit, the better eyes, the robotic arm... And one can never truly hate their parents, can they?"

Robotic arm? They never said anything about a robotic arm!

"And, one day, I found the perfect occupation: Dentistry. I get paid for causing people pain... And one day, I completely forgot to give the patient knock-out gas. It just slipped my mind all together. And the next thing I knew, my hands were covered in blood and the patient was screaming, screaming..." his face darkened, but the slasher-smile was still there. "And damn, I was in ecstasy. The screams, the blood, the pain, oh, I finally understood why my parents loved their jobs so much, there's just something about scaring something beyond all repair... But I gave him enough knock-out gas to completely forget the matter... But I wanted to feel that.. That rush again!" Loboto shifted slightly in his jacket. "Soo, I became a dentist for poor people. Did my job for mere dollars. Save a few, take a few to the, uh, backroom, see what makes them tick. It was great, dull knives, rusty scapels, sometimes I'd play a game, guess what makes them scream the most, and I treat myself to icecream..." Loboto began pushing himself against the wall behind him, slowly but surely raising himself up.

"Tell me, my boy, what do you think makes you scream the worst?" Loboto said, standing now at his full, gangly height. Fred's eyes widened, and a sickening, tearing and whirring sound was heard, and next he knew, Loboto had ripped through the straitjacket with his robotic arm and holding Fred by the neck with his left hand, his claw menacingly pointed towards him. "Wildcats, bears, rats, crows? Maybe something non-animal related, like the dark, knives.. Madmen, maybe? Or have you gotten used to that...?" Loboto's grip tightened. "It's been a while since I've heard something scream, you know..."

In happened in a flash. The door slammed open. Loboto clawed, in a straight line, Fred's left cheek, slowly, savoring the moment, blood dripping down his wincing face, then suddenly he was on the floor, the perfect line on his cheek was a jittery scribble, there was the distinct sound of punches being thrown, partnered with yelling and cursing, and suddenly Fred was being drug out of the room, breathing heavily and pressing his hand to his bleeding cheek.

"Fred! Fred, holy hell, are you alright?" Doctor Thorne's voice yelled, sounding concerned for the first time in ever. He turned to her, shaking, blood staining his white uniform.

"I didn't... scream." he gasped. "I didn't scream."

* * *

**Funfact: I wrote this while listening to a very upbeat song, "Go Out and Love Someone" by Pogo. Funny how the human brain works sometime, huh?  
**


	5. The Disturbed Doctor

A wise man once told Fred that those who are insane have not lost their mind, no, they have found it. Those who are deemed crazy are merely acting as their true original selves that they've hid under years of sanity for so long.

Well, not really. It wasn't a wise man, it was a patient. And he didn't tell him that, he wrote it down. On his suicide note. And even so, it was years before he took his job, Fred was merely bored and was reading through the case files. But he couldn't help but think of that note whenever he talked to Doctor Thorne after the Loboto incident.

Doctor Sheila Thorne had took it upon herself to give Loboto therapy after what happened. And something must've cracked one of her overly-defensive walls, as her voice wasn't as knife-like anymore, her smiles didn't look so forced, and she no longer looked so pale. This was the real Sheila, not the cold-stared and stony face Thorne. She talked, she laughed, she seemed to care for people, and she became more than a superior to Fred. More like.. A comrade. A partner. A friend.

Which is the reason Fred rushed himself to the asylum at five in the goddamn morning when he heard something had happened to her.

People surrounded room 305, one of the many rooms with a one-way mirror so people could look at patients, but the patients could only see what they had become. Only used for the more volatile patients, and even so, some patients often believed their reflection was conspiring against them.

Words flew as Fred tried to get to the mirror.

_The poor dear.._

_A suicide attempt? From her?_

_She seemed so happy..._

_Doctor Quinzel? You're needed with patient 1843, ya know, Joe Kerr._

_This insanity is becoming a plague!_

Fred got to the mirror after shoving many people out of the way, and there, huddled in the corner, was the new patient. Hair was messy, a glasses lense was broken, her gown was already stained with a bit of blood, her wrists were scratched, and–

Oh. Oh no. It couldn't be. Not her. Anyone but her. Not the good doctor.

Without hesitation, Fred pried open the door and ran into her room, slamming it shut behind him, drowning out the yells of stop from the doctors.

"Doctor Thorne? It's me, Fred. Are you alright?" he said, slowly walking to the shivering woman in the corner. She stared at him, wide eyed, clutched herself a little closer, and bit her lip.

"I'm not going to hurt you, doctor." She didn't believe that. She shoved herself against the wall, and Fred could've sworn she mumbled a 'No'.

Fred crouched down to get to her height, and held out his hand. "See? Not going to hurt you. Promise. Now can you tell me what happened?"

She squinted at him for a second, sighed, then spoke.

"I'm.. Not sure, Fred." her voice was cracked and grating, she really was scared. "I was just.. Talking to Loboto yesterday. He.. He really gets into your mind, you know, even with all the restraints we put up. He said things like.. I dunno.." She closed her eyes again, thinking. "'No one really would mind if you disappeared one day. Go on, try it. You push people away, I bet... Surprised they just don't ignore you.' He'd been saying things like this for a while, you know." she opened her eyes, glancing around the room. "He's.. Still in his restraints, right?"

"Yeah. Why?" Fred inquired.

"I.. I don't want him to find me." she shivered a bit at this thought. "Anyway... I was supposed to give him his meds today, right? So, I picked up the little pill cup and was walking to his room, and heard... Voices." Fred raised his eyebrow.

"Yeah, voices. All in this grating, scratchy voice. 'No one will mind. You're unimportant. Kill yourself.' And I just wanted it to stop, and next thing I knew, the pill cup was empty, I was on the floor, sobbing, doctors were yelling for 911, and the voices just... Stopped." tears began streaking down her face, and she covered her eyes with her hands, nails scratching her glasses.

"I.. Just wanted t-to shut them up. Please Fred, tell them to.. Tell them to let me out.. I just wanted to make it stop..." she said through her tears.

Not her. Anyone but her.

* * *

The rain outside was pounding, turning the half-melted snow into slush outside. Inside the asylum walls was just as dreary. Fred barely talked when the doctors pulled him away from the sobbing Sheila. She even reached out to him, crying for him not to go. She needed someone, anyone, a familiar face that could promise not to hurt her. And Fred would do anything to help her.

Maybe the suicidal patient was right. Maybe this was the true her, cracked and broken and praying for this hell to end. Maybe Edgar really was just an angry guy. Maybe Gloria just was two different people. Maybe Boyd was meant to be questioning the world. And maybe, under it all, Loboto was the most horrible bastard to ever walk the earth.

"Ah, if it isn't the Bonaparte boy!" came a scratchy voice, waking Fred from his thoughts in the lobby. Loboto was being drug back to his room by the guards from whatever test they were running on him. "Tell me, how's Sheila? You know, I thought up a new name for her.. Sheegor! Funny huh, though Shelastien would work more, since I made her this way.." Loboto laughed too hard at his own joke.

Fred had never punched anyone harder in his entire life.

* * *

**The idea of Fred FALCONPAUNCHing Loboto in the face may just be the greatest mental image I will have in a long, long time.**

**Also, thanks to Bluemoon613 for re-running the whole "ThorneSheegor" idea in my brain.  
**


	6. The Unfair Player

Punching Loboto in the face very hard was not the brightest thing Fred had ever done in his life for three reasons:

1. Loboto was still laughing after Fred busted his lip. He laughed even harder when he noticed that Fred has cut his knuckles on his teeth.

2. The lecture from his boss made him want to punch someone even harder.

3. Fred got a week's suspension from work. Arguing further would cause Fred to lose his job, and arguing that would cause him to be banned from the asylum forever

So, with a badly bandaged hand and his briefcase, Fred decided to walk home instead of taking his rage out on bus passengers.

This wasn't fair. Loboto deserved that smack to the face and more.

And Sheila. She was scared and alone somewhere in those thick asylum walls, crying her eyes out.

And then there was Boyd, knowing to much for his own good. Fred was spending too much time with him, the conspiracies were _starting to make sense._

And Edgar, heartbroken and tortured painter he was. The violence shifted between none and trashing whatever room he was in except for something with art, they were going to have to lock him in the art room at this rate.

And Gloria, poor, sweet, Gloria. The constant power outages happening at the asylum lately were too much for her to bare, and she wasn't aloud candles in fear of a fire. All she could do was be in the darkest of her emotions.

They were all doing so well, then suddenly, they didn't really relapse, more like they started back-peddling. And it only started a weeks ago...

... Loboto was admitted a few weeks ago. Around the time the power outings happened, around the time Boyd's chalk was going missing, around the time Edgar's paintings were being sabotaged, around the time Sheila's mental walls started crumbling.

Fred screamed when he made the connection, causing a few passerbys to back away and look at him, frightened. Fred punched the nearest brick wall of some random building, hard enough for the bandages to rip and his cuts to open. For the first time in a long time, he could feel his eyes tearing up.

_Unfair._

_So._

_Damn._

_Unfair._

_Life isn't fair , _his mind yelled, _And it never will be._

* * *

The week based by slowly. Fred realized that he based most of his life around the asylum, and that most of his friends either worked there or were admitted there. The rest of his friends actually had lives.

Returning to the asylum, finally, got another "Don't do it again" speech from his boss. And yet again, he was handed a case file of a patient by the name of Crispin Whytehead, who arrived the day after he was suspened from wor–

Wait. Wait a damn second. He knew Crispin Whytehead.

Okay, so he really didn't know Crispin that well. He went to school with him, though. He was the kid who would always wear dark colors, sit in the corner of the classroom, get straight As, never talk, but whenever the teacher called on him, he gave the most heavily detailed and perfect answers ever in that nifty accent of his.

And apparently he threw himself off a building for heaven knows why. And now Fred was staring at him, while Crispin whimpered in the corner, lips showing signs of being bitten far too much and straight jacket threatening to tear any moment without much give needed.

"Crispin, right?" Fred said, trying to relax. "You know, we went to school together."

Crispin merely tilted his head, silently questioning Fred.

"Yeah. Uh, it's Fred. Fred Bonaparte. The kid who always ran into the top of the doorways, remember?" He could've sworn Crispin smirked, if only for a second, at the mental image of Fred banging his head into doorways.

"Anyway, I heard you were kinda... Unresponsive. So, I brought you something..." Fred held up the board game box, putting on his best smile. "Waterloo-O! The fun educational game for the whole family! My friends bought it for me as a joke, Bonaparte and all, and it's actually pretty fun, so... Uh, wanna play?"

Crispin backed himself and against the wall and pushed himself up.

"Alright. But I get first turn, General Bonaparte." he said quietly. Fred smiled and started leading him to the cafeteria.

* * *

"Alright, so all I have to do is get the knight into your fortress?" Crispin said.

"Uh-huh," Fred replied. "Soldiers can break bridges and when they encounter each other, both die. Carpenters fix broken bridges, and can only be killed by knights."

"Soldiers are weaker than carpenters." Crispin said bluntly.

"Hey, don't underestimate the power of a fully-armed carpenter. You'd be pretty scared if some guy was running at you with nails and a hammer." Fred replied, added an odd-one-out soldier back to the box. "Also, I can't let you out of your jacket, so I hope you can push things around with this." Fred placed a plastic shovel-like thing in front of Crispin. Crispin stared at him, serious face.

"General Bonaparte." he said, sounding mock-serious. "This battle can easily be avoided if you surrender."

Fred cracked a smile, then went to a serious glare. "Over my dead body, you heathen!" he spat back, brandishing an invisible sword at Crispin.

"Then let's rock." Crispin snapped back.

"You think they said 'Let's rock' back when Waterloo was going on?" Fred said, moving a soldier forward.

"Doubt it." Crispin said, pushing his carpenter near a bridge, shovel-pusher in his mouth.

Suddenly, the were both laughing quite hard. Finally. Something was going right.

* * *

Scratch that last stateme

The board game treatment was working too well. And Fred was getting he ass handed to him every. Single. Time. And Crispin would not stop gloating about that fact. The taunts were getting more jarring, the kind of getting-in-to-your-head way like Loboto, and eventually Fred decided to quit and wandered around for a bit.

Oh well. He could try tomorrow.

And then he lost.

Again.

And again.

And

Again.

_Fred! You are a Bonaparte! You were made for ze victory and the like! _His mind shouted.

... Did it always have a french accent?

... Oh no.

Fred wandered into the bathroom to clear his thoughts, beginning to understand that someone up there did, in fact, hate him and that the doctors were right:

This insanity is becoming a plague.

* * *

**This chapter is very bipolar. Starts out depressing, goes to happy, then SUSPENSE GASP.**

**Next chapter will be the finale, with Fred, and probably a look at everyone post-asylum breakdown. So, yeah, I'll hopefully have it up soon if I'm not too busy rereading Watchmen.**


	7. Ghosts

**Dammit, sorry for taking so long on this chapter. Real life has been a heartless bitch to me. Anyway, here's the finale to my not-so-epic story.**

_I'm not crazy. I'm not. Really._ _Please, please, it's a mistake, I just.. Cracked a bit under pressure. That's all. Please, let me go home, I just need a vacation._

Words fell on deaf ears, sometimes answered with "That's what they all say."

Even the slightest mocking comment stung now.

_Toughen up, you fool! Zis is only the beginning of your test! _The repressed, success-depraved part of his mind screamed, Fred barely noticing that those very words just left his lips. If this was a test, Fred did not study hard enough.

"Shut up. This is your fault." Fred murmured, clenching his eyes tighter. They had been closed since he was thrown into his room, not wanted to see what he was thrown in. It was an observation room, he knew that much. And he was in a straightjacket.

Heh. Straightjackets made you hug yourself. Made you comfort yourself.

_You only have yourself here, _he noted, _Yourself and whatever repressed personality that comes with you._

_Indeed. And I am staying here until you TOUGHEN UP! _There went his... Other mind again.

"Look. We're obviously going to have be in here for a while. So I should give you a name." Fred murmured.

_Napoleon._

"What."

_MY NAME IZ NAPOLEON BONAPARTE!_

"Alright, alright! Jeez, Napoleon it is, then." Fred said, blinking his eyes open.

He was scrunched in a corner. In a slowly getting less blurry observation room. Dull, grey walls. Starched white sheets on an uncomfortable looking bed. An old wooden chair. A large mirror/window next to a metal door.

Occainsonally, he could here something outside. Laughter, crying, talking, yelling.

Boyd talking to anyone who would listen.

Gloria laughing, soon to turn to choked sobs.

Edgar yelling about someone screwing up his paintings.

Sheila's sobs.

And Loboto enjoying it all.

Fred shut his eyes tightly. He didn't want to see this hell anymore. He had done something horrible a long time ago, and this was punishment.

This was purgatory.

This

Was

Hell.

_And it iz not getting any better, Fred._

_

* * *

_Sometimes, Napoleon would shut up and let Fred think for himself. Someone needed to continue rounds here. Crispin wasn't going to do it. Too blind now.

Gloria was always first. And she'd always smile and tell him about her latest performance and how it was. She buried herself into the deepest confounds of her head, staying in the good memories. Always staying in the spotlight.

Then it was Boyd. He was beyond the bars, but he still responded. A bit. On better days. So wrapped up in the conspiracy. To busy trying to save us all from an evil plot. The norm, at least for him.

Then it was Edgar. Painting beautiful potraits, then BAM. Bullfight. Tortured artists were apparently a dime a dozen, but none were like Edgar.

Then, sometimes, Sheila would come down. She'd tell Fred about her died, about how she found a turtle and Loboto let her keep it. She was hunched over now, hair tangled. A shadow of her former self.

Crispin would just watch Fred's self torture. Hated him too much to talk to him.

And Loboto would come down sometimes, screwing them up even more, throwing them back into relaspe. He wanted to keep them. He wanted a punching bag that could scream.

Maybe one day, Fred would get out of here. He's take his asylum mates with him, give them proper mental care, let them leave normal lives. Give them the happy ending they deserved.

But no. The asylum was dead as dust now, and someone had to haunt it. So all Fred could do was help. And try his hardest not to become a ghost.

**So. It's over. And I have learned one thing**

**MAKE THE FANFIC BEFORE YOU PUT IT ON THE SITE, YOU IDIOT.**

**... Anyway. Thanks to the people who have been reviewing this mess since the beginning, thanks to my friends for giving me ideas, thanks for all your support, your check is in the mail. Now if you excuse me, I need sleep. Goodnight everybody!**


End file.
